Jean Descole and the Snifter of Wine
by ThinkingCAPSLOCK
Summary: Descole  drunkenly  remembers his university days.


AN: inspired by descole on tumblr's headcannon

**Jean Descole and the Snifter of Wine**

Descole swirled the alcohol moodily in the beautifully blown wineglass before him, watching the crimson swirl with the rhythmic motion of his hand. He had long since perfected this movement, of course—heaven forbid he spill some on his carefully pressed ruffled sleeve. He downed the glass in a gulp, slamming the fancy cup on the table before him. Descole didn't care about beauty. He was no art major. What mattered to him was cold, tangible _fact._

And Layton.

He grimaced at the thought, wincing as though struck by an invisible blow. _Layton._ Descole and Layton went back many a year—not that Layton was aware of this, by any means. Descole had made sure to take the proper steps to conceal his identity from his former…_acquaintance._ So, it came as no surprise to Descole when the man didn't recognize him upon their first meeting.

Not surprise, no. More of a shock, really.

Descole reached out and grasped the wine bottle by the neck, clumsily pouring another full glass. He may have mastered the art of letting wine breathe, but he hadn't quite mastered the art of pouring.

Descole scoffed into his drink. _Art._ Art is _useless._

Layton was a fool. How could he not remember the great _Descole?_ Appearance isn't everything. It wasn't as if Descole had bothered to change his voice. His vocal patterns were still the same, weren't they? The intonation? The mannerisms? He grit his teeth. Perhaps he had _wanted_ Layton to recognize him. Is that what he wanted?

Angrily, Descole knocked the glass off the table with a sweep of his hand. He regretted it quickly. There was no need for yet _another_ mess in his life.

His life _was_ a mess.

Layton had foiled the detragigantor, of course. _And_ taken credit for the discovery of Ambrosia. Every time Descole found something worth _anything_, that damn professor would swoop in and spoil the day. _That day._ He had spoiled _that day_, too, all those years ago. Back when Descole was still an innocent—well, comparatively innocent—young student.

The professor's student.

_His beloved professor._

Descole was bitter. That was obvious. Who wouldn't be bitter, though? Layton had taken everything away from him. Layton would _continue_ take everything away from them. It was as though the two were trapped in a bitter competition—kindness and cruelty, sense and science. A competition that it seemed Descole was fated to lose.

Descole threw himself back into his chair, tucking his chin into his furry muffler. _Layton_. Kindness isn't always the best approach, you know. Sometimes it hurts less to be hurt more.

Descole had only been eighteen when he first met the professor. He had taken first year archaeology to fulfill some ridiculous program requirement. His heart lay with what he considered the _core _sciences—biology, chemistry, physics, the works—not with digging in the sand. This would change, however, over the years. But Descole didn't know that. He hadn't expected to be caught up in the world of the past over the world of the future.

You see, Descole was a freshman at Gressenheller University.

He hadn't expected the professor, either. But that was another matter entirely.

Descole had always been a good student. No, he was an _avid_ student. "Good" was nowhere near the correct definition. He hadn't just studied—he had _attacked_ his studies with a fervent zeal. It was _beyond_ interest. It was _thirst_. _Desire._ He didn't _want_ to learn—he _had_ to.

So, when Descole took the front and center seat in Archaeology 101, he had been expecting a haggled old man piled with the dust of the ages to shuffle in to teach the course. This belief, however, was shattered the moment the professor walked through the door.

Young and only the slightest bit anxious, the professor in the top hat strode to the podium and introduced himself to his class. _Hershel Layton, professor of Archaeology 101. I hope we can all get along and enjoy ourselves this fine_ blah, blah, blah. Descole didn't quite remember what the professor had said. It wasn't useful information, whatever it had been. Descole only remembered _useful_ things. He believed the brain could only store a finite amount of data, so he endeavoured to make sure what he stored was the _right_ kind of data.

Layton had changed this, too.

Descole hadn't envisioned falling so quickly and so hard. Indeed, he had never really pursued any romantic interests in previous years. Some lovers had come and gone, but they were more a waste of time than anything serious.

But Descole was serious about the professor.

Not even his own parents were as kind as the professor seemed to be. The four years of Descole's initial major program had passed by in a sort of dreamy blur. The facts were, as always, quite intact in his mind. It was the _other_ sort of circumstances that Descole had lost track of.

Though, that may be the wine. Descole glanced at the empty bottle on the table. Damn.

Layton had always been there, it had seemed, during his student years. He was always willing to discuss projects and clarify notes. Descole was, though he'd never condone the term, certainly a "teacher's pet". He would help wherever necessary, helping carry textbooks to and from classrooms and set up exhibits for special classes. He never missed a lecture and aced every test he took.

Though, this was nothing special for Descole. He was a champion of learning, after all.

Eventually, the time for graduation had fallen upon the young student. Though he had earned who-knows-how-many scholarships and been accepted into a plethora of additional programs, he felt there was something left undone.

He had to tell the professor how he felt.

He knew, logically, that his feelings had no importance to the professor. Emotions were but a way to waste time, sharing them doubly so. And yet…it seemed inevitable.

The day before the graduation ceremony, Descole caught the professor on his way home from a lecture. He could distinctly remember the red-faced, mumbling embarrassment that had crept over him when Layton had asked what the matter was.

Descole had confessed.

He remembered the silence being nearly tangible, stretching on for what seemed like decades.

Layton had patted him gently on the shoulder. Gently. Kindly. _Rejecting him._

Descole looked over to the intricately designed clock on the wall. What ungodly hour was it now? The numbers swam before him, incomprehensible in his inebriated state.

Damn Layton.

Damn him.

Damn…himself.


End file.
